


A Skirmish of Wit

by cardinalgirl75



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, and a little bit of smut thrown in for good measure, chill-fest exchange fic, nothing but fluff here, wedding dress shopping, with a lot of bickering between jaime and brienne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalgirl75/pseuds/cardinalgirl75
Summary: Brienne is reluctantly pressed into service helping a friend pick out her wedding dress.  Things might be easier if the bane of her existence, Jaime Lannister, wasn't around to rile her up at every opportunity.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 51
Kudos: 197
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange 2020





	A Skirmish of Wit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarkWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkWolf/gifts).



> StarkWolf gave me this prompt: "bickering and saying bad things but lust at first sight," and I hope this story doesn't disappoint!
> 
> Many thanks to everyone in the discord who held my hand during the writing of this--there's too many of you to name. :)
> 
> Unbowed, unapologetic, unbeta'd.
> 
> Title taken from this line in _Much Ado About Nothing_ by William Shakespeare: "They never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them."

There are some things in life Brienne Tarth simply can’t resist. Chocolate chip cookies baked by her best friend’s mother. Dogs of every shape and size. Jane Austen adaptations. Wedding dresses—or rather, TV shows about wedding dresses, since Brienne tries to avoid actual wedding dresses like the plague ever since the Unfortunate Incident a few years ago when she got engaged, only to discover the jackass cheating on her six weeks before the wedding.

Two weeks ago, a combination of the first three—her best friend standing outside her door with a tin of cookies in one hand, the leash of her well-behaved (if massive) dog Lady in the other, and a copy of the latest adaptation of _Emma_ in her purse—led to Brienne agreeing to show up today to help a mutual friend search for the fourth. Sansa had pleaded and said that Tysha was terrified about picking out the wrong dress, and her horrible future sister-in-law insisted on coming, and Tysha needed _someone_ in her corner for support, so pleeeeease?

Brienne’s not close to Tysha. In fact, she barely knows Tysha at all, but she’s friends with Tysha’s fiancé, Tyrion Lannister, and even though he’s not the one asking for the favor, she knows that he wants everything to be perfect for Tysha on their wedding day. She also knows Cersei Lannister, the future sister-in-law in question, is a complete bitch who will do her best to ruin the whole thing. And so, Brienne walks toward the ritziest bridal boutique in King’s Landing on a beautiful day in late May when she could be doing something else instead, because the most important thing she can’t resist is a friend in need.

Donyse’s has gotten quite the reputation ever since Princess Elia Martell found the perfect dress for her wedding to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen there fifteen years ago, and now every society bride insists that Donyse and only Donyse can help her find the right dress. Being pawned off on one of her assistants is considered _quite_ the comedown.

Brienne’s only been in Donyse’s once, about six years ago when her friend Margaery was engaged to Renly Baratheon, so she knows the dress code calls for something elegant and ladylike. Considering that Brienne spends most of her days in workout gear at the gym where she works as a personal trainer, and the rest of her time wearing jeans, sweatpants, and a variety of t-shirts, she doesn’t have a lot in her wardrobe that qualifies. And much of that is at least two years out of current fashion.

Still, Brienne thinks she looks nice enough in her blue-and-white halter sundress, worn with three-inch heels she’s going to regret later (if she doesn’t regret them sooner by tripping and falling). Her blond hair is impossible to do much with except pull it back into a looser version of the tight bun she usually wears. As for makeup…although she’s been taught by multiple experts on how to make the most of her eyes, she rarely bothers, and today’s no exception. She wears enough foundation to cover the freckles and adds a bit of lip gloss, and that’s it. She’s not supposed to be the focus of today, anyway.

There’s a traffic jam two blocks away from the boutique, so Brienne pays the driver and gets out to walk the rest of the way. She stumbles slightly in her heels before righting herself. She finds her stride and walks down the street with her head held high. She doesn’t notice the heads turning to look her way because she stopped noticing them a long time ago. Her armor is up and she doesn’t care if people gawk at the tall, ugly woman wearing a pretty dress.

Brienne reaches the front entrance of Donyse’s at the same time as another patron. Their hands brush together as they both reach for the door handle.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs at the same time a deep voice says, “After you.”

Brienne steps back and looks at him, and immediately her eyes narrow. “You?” she asks in disbelief as she recognizes him instantly as the man who’s been the bane of her life since the night they’d met at his brother’s bar, where she’d been working part-time as a bouncer before she’d gotten the full-time gig at the gym. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Jaime Lannister lets go of the door and takes a step back of his own. He doesn’t answer right away, instead giving her a thorough once-over that it takes every molecule in her being not to shiver at. He always does this, and she knows it’s to unnerve her. She hates that it usually works.

“I could ask you the same thing. What does Tysha need with _you_ giving her fashion advice?” He seems transfixed by her legs, and she wishes that she’d decided to wear the pantsuit instead. She knows he finds her lacking, but does he have to make a point of it every time?

“I’m sure I’ll be of more help than a man who lets his sister pick out his outfits,” she replies. She glances at what he’s wearing today, trying not to let her gaze linger too much. He’s tall, golden-curled, green-eyed, with a razor-sharp smile. He’s well-muscled, indicating a love for the gym that no doubt rivals Brienne’s own, and his body is shown off to perfection in a dark green long-sleeved shirt and black pants. She knows she’s hit her mark when that smile thins into a flat line, and fifty dragons say that Cersei’s wearing something similar. “And Tysha asked me to come, so I’m here. Still doesn’t explain your presence.”

“I’m here to lend support to the lovely bride-to-be,” he says. “As I should, since she’s going to be my sister-in-law.”

Brienne snorts, a most unladylike sound, but she knows he’s not wrong. His primary job today will be to mitigate any damage Cersei does with her acid tongue, because Tyrion will have asked him to do it. Brienne may think Jaime’s a grade-A jerk, but his love for his younger brother is one of his few bright spots and she shouldn’t mock his reason for being here. She scores a hit when his mouth narrows further, but it’s a cheap hit and she knows it.

“I don’t want her walking down the aisle in something that’s going to embarrass her,” he snaps.

“Embarrass her, or embarrass the Lannister family?” Brienne asks, her temper rising.

“She’s going to be joining the Lannister family, so it’ll be one and the same.” Jaime crosses his arms over his chest.

“Listen, you. If she wants to walk down the aisle in a see-through lace minidress, then you tell her she looks beautiful in it and that Tyrion’s tongue will be hanging out a foot when he sees her.”

“Someone needs to keep this wedding on the tasteful side. Much though I love my brother, his fashion sense is about as deplorable as yours, so it’s up to Cersei and me to make sure that things don’t get out of hand.” Before Brienne can reply, he motions to the door. “Now, do you want to go in there and provide what little assistance you can, or are you staying out here?”

A flood of insults and comments flood Brienne’s brain, but she sees Sansa heading their way looking cool and collected in a dove gray sweater and pants until one saw the anger in her eyes.

“It’s time for our appointment,” Sansa says as she opens the door. She turns to Brienne. “Tysha was getting worried that you weren’t going to be able to make it.”

Brienne gives Jaime one last glare and says, “Traffic snarl on Street of Silk. I had to walk the rest of the way, and then I got held up by some riffraff blocking the door.”

“Riffraff!”

Sansa steps out of the boutique. “Listen, I know you two don’t get along, but for Tysha’s sake, could you keep the claws sheathed? She’s nervous enough as it is, and we all know Cersei’s not going to make matters any easier.” She looks at Jaime. “You’re supposed to be the mediator in this family. _Be_ the mediator.” Then at Brienne. “You’re the honest but kind one here. _Be_ honest and kind. And remember that the focus of today is _Tysha,_ and by association _Tyrion.”_

Brienne nods and lets go of her anger because Sansa’s right. Jaime motions for Brienne to walk ahead of him, a rare gentlemanly gesture on his part, and Brienne follows Sansa into the lobby, where Tysha and Cersei wait. As Sansa said, Tysha is clearly nervous and Brienne knows that if she’s not careful, Cersei’s going to eat her alive. When she sees Brienne, Tysha smiles brightly, revealing the smile that won Tyrion Lannister over. Well, that and the body poured into a voluptuous skintight black dress that would be more appropriate for evening wear than a trip to a bridal boutique.

Speaking of the she-devil, there she is in a dress of dark green that is about as clingy as Tysha’s, so maybe that’s what is considered fashionable these days and Brienne ignored the memo as usual. And speaking of that dress…Brienne turns and sees Jaime a step behind her.

“Did you call her to coordinate your outfits?” Brienne murmurs before rushing forward and exclaiming, “Tysha! It’s good to see you! You look lovely!”

“Thanks, Brienne,” Tysha says. She rises from the couch to give Brienne a hug—a bit of a melodramatic gesture as they barely know each other, but Brienne can’t blame her for seeking comfort when she’s been putting up with Cersei, who gives Brienne a once-over that’s somewhat similar to the one Jaime gave her.

“Why will women with legs like tree trunks wear shorter skirts?” Cersei asks in that cold, “bored-now” tone she’s perfected over the years. “Why draw attention to such massive thighs? Jaime, wouldn’t you say that Brienne looks rather…thick?”

For once in her life, Brienne wishes her complexion wasn’t so fair, because she blushes easily. And while Cersei’s comment itself wouldn’t be enough to make her blush, the look Jaime gives her as he circles around her _does._

“Thick, indeed,” Jaime says, but his voice is odd. It doesn’t sound mocking at all.

Brienne is saved from responding because the door to the main salon opens and a very short man with a bulbous nose greets them. He could’ve been any age from thirty to about fifty. “Welcome to Donyse’s,” he says with a bright smile that he must have paid a fortune for. “My name is Brother, and—”

Cersei glares daggers at him. “You’re joking, right? My brother might be a lesser Lannister, and his bride-to-be might be—”

“It’s good to meet you,” Sansa talks over Cersei. “Brother, you said?” She extends her hand for him to shake. “I’m Sansa Stark.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Stark, I remember you from Ms. Tyrell’s last dress search.”

Brienne can’t help it, but she tries to keep her laughter as quiet as possible. Margaery’s been engaged three times, has been in this salon trying on dresses every time, and it wasn’t until her most recent engagement ended that she finally admitted why she never went through with her weddings, and it had everything to do with Sansa.

Sansa’s cheeks turn pink as she smiles. “Yes, well, the next time she comes in for a dress search, it’ll be with me and we’ll both be choosing dresses.”

“We look forward to that day,” Brother says smoothly.

Sansa motions to Brienne. “This is Brienne, a good friend of the happy couple, and then there’s Cersei and Jaime. They’re related to the groom.”

“Related to—we’re the brother and sister of the groom, and here to make sure that his would-be bride doesn’t make any foolish choices for her wedding dress,” Cersei snaps. “And as I was saying, as a _Lannister bride,_ it’s an insult to—”

“—it’s good to meet you, Brother,” Jaime cuts in, and Brienne’s surprised to see a friendly smile on his face. “I’m sure you’ll help our future sister-in-law find the perfect dress for the occasion.”

Brother looks at Jaime gratefully. “I’m here to take everyone to the private salon, as Mr. Tyrion Lannister requested. Donyse will meet you there and talk with Miss Croft privately.”

Cersei looks mollified that they’ll be working with Donyse personally…for about five seconds. “Yeah, that’s not happening,” she says. “We have to have approval of her dress or else she’ll show up in little more than a micromini and a thong. Donyse will meet with all of us.”

Brother’s lips press together, and Brienne marvels at his ability not to give Cersei the smackdown she deserves. Tysha’s lips quiver and there’s a bit of moisture at the corner of her eyes. Brienne’s heart squeezes and she wants to say something to Cersei, but the frustrating thing about her life is that she has insults and comments galore for Jaime, and no problem saying anything to him. But the minute she tries to dish back what Cersei serves everyone, she becomes tongue-tied and awkward. A holdover from their days together at boarding school, she suspects. 

Fortunately, Sansa doesn’t have that problem. “Are you paying for anything to do with this wedding?” she asks.

“My brother no doubt is, which means the money is coming from the Lannister coffers, which means—”

“Which means that you, personally, are not contributing a penny to this wedding. Therefore, you do _not_ get final dress approval. Tysha’s allowing you here as a courtesy because you’re Tyrion’s siblings, but that’s as far as your role goes today. Now, are we going to stand here all day arguing about this, or are we actually going to get to look at some dresses?”

“Right this way,” Brother says, linking his arm in Tysha’s and leading her into the inner sanctum.

Brienne’s grateful she wore her sundress when she walks into the main salon, which is definitely more elegant than she remembered. The room is decorated in creamy white from the wallpaper to the couches to the carpet, with gold accents here and there. Dress mannequins display several of the styles on offer.

“I bet this is what a chick sees before being hatched,” she hears Jaime mumble. She presses her lips together to keep from laughing, although Cersei doesn’t think it’s that funny if the hissed conversation between the twins is any indication.

Brother leads them past a series of small dressing rooms and into a private room decorated in similar fashion to the main salon, including a select few dresses on display. Brienne notices that they’re across the hall from the stock room, of which she gets a very brief glimpse before the door to their private room closes behind them.

Everyone takes a seat on the couches—Jaime and Cersei alone on one, Tysha, Sansa, and Brienne crowding together on the other. Brother asks if anyone wants something to drink.

“Um, is it…do the drinks cost anything?” Tysha asks nervously, her fingers toying with the hem of her dress.

Cersei snorts. “Oh, gods, where _did_ you come from? Champagne all around and make it fast.”

“And bring an extra bottle so she doesn’t have to wait for the refills,” Sansa adds sweetly.

“Perhaps you’d like to try on a few of the dresses yourself,” Cersei shoots back. “All those times you watched Margaery must’ve made you a little jealous.”

Sansa ignores Cersei and asks Tysha, “Have you given much thought to what kind of dress you want?”

“Well, I’ve always liked Cinderella-style dresses, but I think they’d be a bit too much for me. Then I thought a fit-and-flare would be good.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sansa says with a smile. “You’ve got the figure for it, and there are so many different variations that you’ll be spoiled for choice.”

“But then I asked Tyrion about it,” Tysha continues. “He said he likes the idea of something a little…naughty.”

“I knew it,” Cersei mutters.

“So I guess I’ll just see if I can find something that combines what we’re both looking for. I wish he could be here to give me his thoughts, but…”

“Absolutely not,” Sansa says firmly. “The groom is not allowed to see the bride in her gown until she’s walking down the aisle. You wouldn’t want to bring bad luck to your marriage, would you?” Over Tysha’s ducked head, she gives Cersei a look that dares her to comment.

Brother returns with a tray of drinks. Another assistant brings in a bottle of champagne in a bucket to remain chilled, which he sets on the table in front of the group. Everyone takes a glass as Sansa proposes a toast.

“To Tysha and Tyrion,” she says, “who found love in a most unlikely place.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cersei muses. “I’m sure a lot of guys find ‘love’ there. It’s just that the love doesn’t usually last longer than the hour it takes to—”

“To Tysha and Tyrion,” Brienne says loudly as Tysha blushes. Brienne hasn’t heard the entire story about how Tysha and Tyrion met—she thinks it had something to do with Tysha almost being assaulted outside the club where she works as a cocktail waitress—but everyone knows what Cersei’s implying.

Everyone takes a drink, or in Cersei’s case, guzzles half the contents of the flute. She reaches for the bottle to top hers off just as a calm, middle-aged woman in a chic black pantsuit and white blouse walks in. It’s the famous Donyse, the proprietor of the store that sold the dress that won the heart of Princess Elia and therefore Prince Rhaegar by proxy. (Never mind that the prince ran off with another woman five years after the wedding. People conveniently forget that bit when they remember the fairytale dress.) Brienne expects her to be as snobbish as she appears and look down her nose at Tysha, but instead she gives her a warm smile.

“You’re as lovely as Tyrion described you,” Donyse says. “Stand up, dearest, so I can get a good look.”

Sansa takes Tysha’s champagne glass as Tysha rises to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Yes, very lovely. No need to introduce them, I know who they are,” Donyse says, looking at Jaime and Cersei, “and I remember her from Margaery Tyrell’s last…er, almost wedding.” She looks Sansa’s way. “But who’s your other friend?”

“Oh! This is Brienne Tarth. She used to work for Tyrion and we’re friends, so she’s here for me.”

Donyse smiles. “I think I remember her from another of Margaery’s weddings.” She gives Brienne a quick up-and-down glance. “Yes, I remember you. Quite singular.”

_Singular._ Margaery’s grandmother uses that phrase to describe Brienne, and she’s not sure if it’s supposed to be a compliment or an insult.

“All right, Tysha, let’s talk the wedding itself. What are the plans?”

“Well, we’ve talked about a small wedding—”

Cersei snorts. “There are at least seventy-five Lannisters who will be offended if they don’t get an invite, even if it’s just Tyrion getting his starter marriage out of the way. Plan for at least double that number since there will be Father’s business associates, and then what few friends you can scrape together.”

Nerves dance in Tysha’s eyes. “—in the little sept back home where I live in Oxcross. I always dreamed of marrying there, and Tyrion said—”

“Oh, please. Tyrion wants to make as big a splash as he can. They’ll be married in the family sept at Casterly Rock.” Cersei takes another drink.

Donyse nods slowly. “How about if we go to my office and talk in private?” she suggests.

“No,” Cersei says. “Gods only know what ideas you’ll get—”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Jaime says. He leans over and whispers something in Cersei’s ear. She glares at him but holds her tongue.

Tysha looks relieved as Donyse leads her away from the rest of the group.

“Honestly, Jaime, I can’t believe you think this farce is going to last,” Cersei says. “I doubt they even make it to the wedding.”

“This is Tyrion’s decision to make, not yours or Father’s,” Jaime says. “I don’t think it’ll last any more than you do, but is it necessary to insult the poor girl? She seems sweet.”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s _very_ sweet. And she’ll continue to be _very_ sweet when she’s taking Tyrion to the cleaners.”

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of pointers you can give her to do that,” Sansa replies, leaning back onto the couch and taking a drink of champagne. “After all, Robert Baratheon’s still staring at his empty bank account and wondering where it all went.”

Brienne decides that she has little interest in this discussion, mostly because she hates to admit it, but she actually agrees with Jaime and Cersei on this one. Tysha’s a sweet girl, and she doesn’t stand a chance in the Lannister family. She sets her empty glass aside and gets up to look around the room, admiring the dresses on display.

There’s one dress that she thinks would be perfect for Tysha—a form-fitting lace mermaid dress that will be slightly naughty while still being appropriate enough for a Lannister wedding. She has a feeling that Cersei will reject it out of hand, but maybe Brienne will be wrong. She wanders along, giving a wistful glance at a ballroom gown that cries out to be worn, but not by someone like her. That’s more a gown for a tall, willowy woman like Cersei.

She moves on to a gown that reminds her of what she’d planned to marry Hyle in—a strapless A-line gown that she’d liked at the time but doesn’t want to think about now.

“Picturing yourself in that?” she hears someone behind her say. She jumps _(dammit)_ and jerks her head around to see Jaime behind her, champagne flute in hand.

“Of course not,” she says. “I’m trying to figure out if they’ll work for Tysha.”

“Because you have so much experience choosing wedding dresses.”

Brienne doesn’t know how much Jaime knows about her past experience. She’s friends with Tyrion, but they’re not so close that Brienne’s revealed her darkest life moments or anything. “Believe it or not, when I was a little girl, I used to dream about getting married.”

“Oh, really? With the groom and everything?”

Brienne looks at him askance. “No, I dreamed I was getting married to a tree,” she says sarcastically. “Yes, there was groom involved.”

“Was he as tall as a tree? Because that might be about the only thing taller than you, although I’ve seen a few Cleganes who might—”

“I don’t know why I bother talking to you.” She walks away from the offensive man and the equally offensive dress to look at another slip dress that won’t do for Tysha at all.

The dress can’t follow her, but Jaime can. And does. “That one might be nice on you,” Jaime says. “Although…no. It won’t do a thing for you, and the waistline is all wrong. Forget that one.”

“I’m not looking for me,” she repeats through gritted teeth. “We’re here for Tysha. Remember?”

“Hmm.” Jaime sips his champagne. “So, what did your dream wedding look like? Big poofy dress, tons of roses everywhere, fifteen bridesmaids, handsome man at the altar?”

Brienne refuses to look at him, because he’s closer to the mark than she wants to admit and because she realized as she grew older that none of it would suit her. Well, the handsome man would’ve suited her, and she supposes Hyle was okay-looking, but even he hadn’t wanted her in the end, not really.

She shrugs and keeps her voice neutral. “Sure. Isn’t that what every little girl wants?”

She feels rather than sees him move closer to her. His breath is almost on her neck when he murmurs, “What about the big girl? What does she want? What does she dream about?”

“I’m hardly going to tell you,” Brienne says and walks away to the next dress, another ballgown that’s so beautiful that Brienne almost wants to cry. She blinks back the tears as she hears Jaime walking her way. _Why_ will he not leave her alone?

“That one’s not for you,” he says. “You’ve got to have boobs for it, and sad to say, you don’t quite meet that requirement. Not that Donyse couldn’t arrange for some padding, but…”

Brienne glares at him and stalks to the next display, another A-line that reminds her even more of the wedding dress she’d taken a pair of scissors to the day after she discovered Hyle in bed with his ex-girlfriend. She can barely stand to look at it, so she moves on, but Jaime stops in front of it.

“Hey, Tarthy, this one might do,” he says, pointing to the dress. He looks at the dress, then at her.

“Jaime, what _are_ you talking about?” Cersei asks. She glances at the dress he stands before. “That dress is too plain for a Lannister bride to wear. She needs something more elaborate. Something with pearls and some lace—but _no_ beads or sequins.”

Jaime looks at the dress again, then back to Brienne. “No, seriously, with this one you won’t have to worry about the bust. You can make the most of your legs—”

“Without having them on display, is that it?” Brienne has just about had it with him. “How would you feel if I went about this room, looking at all these dresses and picturing how they look on you? How would you feel if I mocked how you might look in all of them?”

“I wasn’t—” Jaime protests, but he’s cut off by Cersei’s derisive laugh.

“Good gods, Brienne, did you have something to drink before you got here? Jaime in a dress—really.”

Brienne’s warming to the idea. He’s been following her around, mocking her just as he has for the past two years they’ve known each other, and maybe now’s the time to give him a taste of his own medicine. “How about if I go back there, find a dress in your size, and you try it on? Get an idea of how it feels to have someone pick apart all your flaws?” Not that the blasted man had any, but she was damned well going to find some. 

“I will if you let me pick one out for you,” Jaime replies, his green eyes brimming with mirth.

“Jaime, what on earth are you doing?” Cersei asks. “You’re—”

“You’re on.” And with that, Brienne heads out of the room and across the hall to the stock room.

“Guys, you’re not supposed to be—” she hears Sansa exclaim, but Brienne is beyond caring. She’s put up with this annoying jackass for the last half hour—hells, forget that, she’s put up with him for the past two years—and she wants to get a little of her own back.

The minute Brienne walks into the room, she’s transfixed. It’s utilitarian and nothing as glamorous as the salon she just left, but it feels like she’s discovered the beating heart of the boutique. And that heart is filled with gowns of many different shapes, sizes, and variations on the color white, with occasional splashes of pastel yellow, blue, and pink. This room is what would happen if every one of Brienne’s secret dreams of what her wedding gown would look like came to life.

“Good gods,” Jaime says beside her. “It’s the wedding dress breeding ground. They close the door at night and the organza dresses mate with the chiffon ones to create something completely different.”

Against her better judgment, Brienne laughs. “Isn’t it amazing?” she says with wonder in her voice, then remembers who she’s standing there with. She takes a deep breath. “Come on. Time to find you a dress.”

“I’ll be over here, looking for a dress for you,” Jaime says, heading off to a rack of slinky, form-fitting dresses.

“Uh-huh. Good luck finding anything there.” Brienne never even considered anything that wasn’t an A-line when she was shopping for her wedding dress. The last thing she needs is something to show off her complete lack of curves. She heads over to a section where the dresses are clearly designated for brides who aren’t size twos. She’ll find something for him there.

Brienne delicately pushes aside elegant dresses in search of the gaudiest thing she can find, but it’s kind of tough when Donyse’s is known for beauty and style. _Surely there’s something with a lot of sequins, she thinks. There are always brides who want something so blingy that they resemble a disco ball. Or no—ruffles! Ruffles, ruffles, ruffles! The more organza the better—aha!_

Brienne finds exactly what she’s looking for and grabs it from the rack—a snowy white ballgown with tiers upon tiers of organza ruffles, with a train long enough to catch every bit of lint and dirt on a floor. She bundles it into her arms and gets about five steps before she bumps into someone. A rather tall someone carrying a length of cream-colored material in his arms.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Jaime says when he sees what she’s holding. “Didn’t we agree that anyone wearing a ballgown needed to have something of a bust?”

“Oh, is that the flaw I’m going to find when you put this on?” Brienne asks sweetly. She looks at what he’s got and is surprised to see that it’s not the A-line dress that she’s expecting him to choose. Instead, Jaime’s chosen an elegant silk dress that would cling to her and make her look lumpy. At least, that was what her then-stepmother, Roelle, had told her when she’d looked at a similar dress longingly on her shopping excursion years ago. “What…what is that?”

“A dress,” Jaime says. “I thought that would be obvious.”

“I can’t wear that. I’ll look…”

“Ridiculous?” Jaime’s eyebrows raise sardonically. “And here I thought that was the point of this exercise. Give me that dress. I’ll try it on, but you have to try this one on in exchange.”

Brienne wonders if she’s in over her head, but she’s come too far to back down now. She grabs the dress from him as he takes the ruffled monstrosity out of her arms. “Where do you think we can try these on?” The salon’s busy today and she isn’t sure that there’s an empty dressing room.

Jaime shrugs and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“Are you crazy?” she hisses at him as he continues unbuttoning. “Someone’s probably going to come in here at any minute! I’m not undressing where anyone can see!”

“Oh, calm down, Tarthy,” he says. “Anyone who comes back here helps women get in and out of dresses all day. They won’t be phased by this. We’ll just explain that all the dressing rooms were full.”

“And how are we going to explain that _you’re_ trying on a dress?”

Jaime shrugs. “I’m sure they’ve helped their share of guys into dresses as well.” He shrugs out of the shirt and Brienne turns her back to him, but not before she sees his well-defined chest, lightly dusted with golden hair slightly darker than that on his head.

Brienne ruthlessly suppresses the surge of heat that tries to overtake her, because there are more urgent matters at hand. “I’m not undressing in front of you,” she says.

“I’ll be a gentleman and turn my back, have no fear.” She hears the slide of a zipper and knows he’s taking off his pants. She resists the urge to turn and take a look to see if the rest of him matches up with his chest, because of course it will. She hears some grunts and curses and once a “what the fuck is this?” and then… “I think I may need a little help to get the back of this closed, if it’ll close on me.”

Brienne turns to see Jaime with his back to her, the dress undone to his waist. The ruffled skirt bells out around him and makes it difficult for her to get to the back, but she manages. She grasps the zipper, trying to ignore the warm skin her fingers occasionally brush against as she gets the zipper partway up his back. She has to stop when she reaches the upper part of his chest.

“I think this is as good as it’s going to get,” she says. “Now turn around so I can see.”

“Oh, no, Tarth. You don’t get to see the full effect until you’re dressed in your gown, too, and I didn’t hear you removing any clothing.”

Brienne blushes. “I…”

“Fair’s fair. I’m wearing a dress you picked out, so now you’re putting on my choice.”

Brienne rolls her eyes and says, “Fine. You stay turned around until I tell you otherwise.” She drops the dress in a heap to the floor, steps to one side, and hurriedly takes off her sundress. She occasionally glances over her shoulder to make sure that Jaime’s still got his back turned and isn’t watching her dress.

She slithers into the gown, expecting it at any minute to be too tight, but to her surprise, it seems to fit as well as a sample dress would. The cowl neckline is more modest than she expects, but it dips low in the back. The material flows and moves with her but doesn’t cling annoyingly. It’s…

It’s almost perfect. A touch tight here and there, but this is the dress she would choose if she were getting married again. Which she isn’t, and probably never will be.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she says and turns around and finds Jaime is already facing her. She wants to yell at him for turning too soon but for two things: first, the look on his face. It’s a look she’s never seen from him before. It’s almost…admiring. _Admiring?_ She’s imagining things, because he’s not the type of guy who admires someone like her. He’s made enough comments over the years—her shoulders are broad, her chest is all but flat, her arms are too muscled, her legs are thick. No, it must be something else that’s causing his eyes to go dark like that.

But she struggles to figure out what it is because she keeps getting distracted by the other thing, which is how he looks in the wedding dress she picked out. Or rather, how he looks half out of it, because the bodice sags without anything to keep it held up, revealing the chest she tried to ignore earlier. Brienne’s always had a weakness for men’s chests, and Jaime’s is…well, if the Warrior were made flesh, he’d have a chest like Jaime’s. 

Brienne swallows hard and starts to say, “Well, you look…” but can’t think of anything other than, “You look uncomfortable in that, why don’t you slip out of it,” which will earn her scorn and mockery. Better to keep her mouth shut.

“You look stunning,” Jaime says softly. It’s perhaps the sincerest thing she’s ever heard him say. There’s no mockery in his eyes as he looks at her, and given their history, she would recognize it instantly. “I was sure that dress would…turn around. Let me see the whole thing.”

Brienne wants to protest or insist that he go first so she can make fun of him twirling in all those organza ruffles, but she slowly turns in a circle so he can see the full effect. Whatever that may be. When she faces him again, Jaime’s eyes dominate her attention, because an idea takes root in her brain and won’t let go. Is it possible that Jaime might actually _find her attractive?_ Surely not. From her time at the bar, she’s seen the girls he dates, and they’re all as gorgeous as he is. He’s never come close to being with anyone who looks like her.

“Stunning,” he repeats. “Your back is…and your arms…”

“They’re too big,” she reminds him. “But at least my thick legs are hidden—”

Jaime doesn’t let her finish. Despite the mountain of organza between them, he steps forward, takes her face in his hands, and brings her head down for a kiss. Her brain shuts down completely with only one thought in her mind: _Jaime Lannister is kissing me._

But that can’t be right, because Jaime Lannister doesn’t kiss girls like her, because he doesn’t find girls like her attractive.

“They are thick,” he murmurs against her mouth. “They’re thick and strong and amazing and I’ve wanted them wrapped around my waist since I met you, Brienne.” Good gods, it’s the first time he’s ever called her by her first name. She’s always been _Tarth_ to him before, or worse, _Tarthy._

“But—” The minute her mouth is open, his mouth is back on hers, and now she’s trying to figure out why the hells she picked out a damned ballgown for him to wear because there’s one way for her to be absolutely sure he’s not doing this as some sort of sick joke, and she won’t be able to tell because he’s wearing nine thousand yards of material, dammit!

Jaime pulls away, looks down at the skirt, and then back at her with a rueful smile. He reaches behind him and frowns when he can’t get to the zipper on the bodice.

“Turn around,” she says huskily, wondering at the timbre of her voice as he whirls, the skirt flaring around him, and she almost giggles except there’s his back again, and it’s as gorgeous as his front, and she can think that now because he kissed her. Her fingers tremble as she unzips him, and then both of their hands are reaching for the skirt to pull it down off his hips, and then he’s free of it.

Jaime turns back to her with a hungry look in his eyes, an erection his red-and-gold boxer briefs do nothing to hide, and no impediment keeping him from getting as close to her as they both want. This time, her hands reach for him and pull him close as his mouth claims hers. He clutches handfuls of silky material and pulls it up her legs, pulls until the fabric bunches around her waist and her legs are bare. His hands go under her thighs as he lifts her off the ground. She gasps, “Put me down before you hurt yourself!”

“Wrap your legs around me.” She should object to being ordered to do anything, but he pleads, “Please, Brienne. _Please.”_

And so she wraps her legs around him, feeling the hard evidence that this isn’t a joke, and that he, _Jaime Lannister,_ wants her. He walks them over to the closest wall and presses against her against it, his body against hers, and oh gods, she’s never felt like this, not even with Hyle. Hyle never could’ve done this even if he’d wanted to, he wasn’t strong enough.

But Jaime’s strong enough, and he’s pinned her up against this wall and he’s kissing her as though he needs her kisses to stay alive, and because he’s strong enough and she’s strong enough, his hands can roam to her waist, his fingers searching out the waistband of her panties and slipping under it.

“Gods, Brienne,” he says, his voice low and husky with desire as he rocks his hips into her, and Brienne is fully conscious of the fact that there are a mere two layers of fabric between his hard cock and her soft core. She bites off a moan. “You have no idea what the sight of you has done to me ever since we met.”

“I’m getting an idea,” she whispers as she squeezes her legs tighter around his waist.

“Your back and your legs…and arms…gods, you could pick me up and hold me against this wall if you wanted.”

“I could,” she agrees as his mouth moves from her lips to the long line of her throat, kissing and nibbling as he continues to rock against her. Brienne feels something deep inside her drawing tighter and tighter as they move together. “Gods, Jaime….”

“Excuse me!”

Brienne lets out a loud yelp as Jaime freezes, and she’s not sure if she cries out because she’s been brought back to earth or because Jaime’s stopped moving.

“I don’t know what the hells the two of you are doing in here…” A lengthy pause, but Brienne refuses to open her eyes to see who it is, although she recognizes the voice well enough. “…actually, I suppose that’s obvious. But would you mind taking off that dress before you ruin it and taking your action to the hotel down the road?”

Brienne doesn’t need a mirror to know that she’s turned about twenty shades of red. Jaime, his head still buried in the crook of her neck, laughs softly. “Should we ignore her?” he whispers.

“I heard that. I’ll keep the rest of my assistants out of here for five minutes so you can get dressed again. Anything longer than that, and I’m sending them in here with instructions to toss you out in whatever state of dress they find you in.” With a click of heels and a soft chuckle, Donyse leaves the inventory room. 

Brienne’s face may be burning, but the rest of her has turned to ice. She bats at his arm. “Put me down,” she hisses.

Jaime complies with a look of regret, then a chuckle when Brienne sags against the wall, her legs too wobbly to hold her. He steps back and walks over to his pile of clothes, which he slips into fast enough. She struggles out of the wedding gown, which she drapes on a nearby chair with some regret, and puts her sundress back on. She notices a mirror and decides to assess the damage. Good gods, she looks positively wanton. Most of her hair has fallen out of the bun she’d fixed this morning. Her mouth, which is already wide enough, is swollen from Jaime’s kisses. The pupils in her eyes are blown until there’s more black than blue showing, and her cheeks are the expected red. She can already see the little line of hickeys forming where Jaime had been sucking at her neck.

She looks at Jaime’s reflection in the mirror. Blond curls tousled from her fingers and, when his eyes meet hers, they’re just as glazed, but other than that, he looks as amazing as he did when he’d walked into the boutique.

Jaime steps up behind her and places his hands on her waist. “Mirrors,” he murmurs in her ear. “You like mirrors.”

“I hate mirrors,” she replies. “Mirrors have never done anything for me.”

He shifts, pressing himself flush against her back so she can feel his undiminished arousal, and gods help her, she leans back into him. His left hand circles her waist as his right hand moves down her leg, pulling up the skirt of her dress and creeping closer to her panties, which she knows are embarrassingly wet.

“I bet I could change your mind on that.” His fingers brush against the thin cotton covering her cunt, and she shivers. “How fast do you think—”

“All right, you two! Donyse says to get out, so get out!”

Jaime steps back with a muttered curse. Brienne closes her eyes and takes several breaths, trying to calm herself. “We need to go,” she says. “We can’t…”

“Right.”

Another couple of breaths later, Brienne decides she’s as calm as she’s going to get. She turns to see a tall, skinny blonde looking from her to Jaime in disbelief. She gives her a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

Jaime, directly behind her, says, “We’re not sorry, but we might come back here for _her_ wedding dress, anyway. We’ll go with the slinky number over on the chair, but there needs to be a slit in the skirt to show off her legs. Let Donyse know.”

Brienne’s mouth drops open at Jaime’s proclamation, but before she can yell at him for his presumptuousness—for gods’ sake, until about fifteen minutes ago they’d spent every moment together sniping at each other, now he’s talking marriage?—he grabs her hand and stalks out of the fitting room, Brienne stumbling in her heels behind.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze, but Brienne notes a few things as Jaime drags her through the main salon, through the lobby, and out the door in search of that closest hotel the Donyse told them about. Sansa, Cersei, and Tysha appearing at the door to the private salon. Sansa shouting delightedly that she’ll talk with Brienne later. Cersei screeching, “Jaime, where the fuck are you going with that beast?” The squeals of outrage as Jaime bulldozes everything in his path to get them to their final destination.

And then, when they’re alone in their hotel room…the feel of Jaime’s hands on her. The taste of Jaime’s skin. The way his body moves on her, in her. And the look in his eyes the whole time, as if a winning lottery ticket fell from the sky into his lap and he can’t believe his good fortune to have her.

Oh, yes. And the mirror.

She definitely remembers the mirror.


End file.
